


nothing gold can stay

by awkwardwritersyndrome



Series: Gilded Inferno [1]
Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, PWP, apollo is a hoe and i love that for him, seraphim being a precious baby and getting the love he deserves, some weird semi-canonical sex magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27807427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardwritersyndrome/pseuds/awkwardwritersyndrome
Summary: The gods continue to toy with Seraphim as the war quickly approaches. Apollo gets his fill of fun.
Relationships: Apollo/Seraphim (Blood of Zeus)
Series: Gilded Inferno [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078517
Comments: 18
Kudos: 91





	nothing gold can stay

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this characterization and lore is from other Greek mythology sources, but generally fits well with BoZ. If you hate the idea that Apollo will fuck anything with a pretty face and a pulse, please click away. Also, and this hardly has anything to do with the fic, Seraphim did nothing wrong, and I write him from that perspective :)
> 
> The title is from the Robert Frost poem _Nothing Gold Can Stay_ , which I've included here because it's a banger:  
> Nature’s first green is gold,  
> Her hardest hue to hold.  
> Her early leaf’s a flower;  
> But only so an hour.  
> Then leaf subsides to leaf.  
> So Eden sank to grief,  
> So dawn goes down to day.  
> Nothing gold can stay.

A flock of crows swarm in the sky like a cloud that blocks the sun. Their squawking pierces through the air and rouses Seraphim from his unpleasant sleep. As consciousness returns to him he manages to stand, unclothed except for the cloth wrapped around his waist. The temperature drops to a frigid low and sends a cracking chill up his spine. 

Seraphim slowly reaches to summon his bident, he can sense the presence of a god, and does not intend to be cordial. The crows burst through his door, erratic and possessed, thrashing through his home like a vortex of wind. Before he can get to his bident he must throw his arms up to shield his face from being clawed and pecked. 

The moment of chaos is enough to disarm him, giving Hera time to return to her corporeal form and stalk towards him unnoticed. A wave of her hand sends the crows storming through the door from whence they came, and it slams shut behind them. 

It pains Seraphim to tilt his chin upward to see, but Hera is a full head taller, and her crown exaggerates her staggering height. He kneels at her feet to avoid provoking her use of violet power. She looks down upon him and fancies his short and wide frame, his newfound obedience. His build and sharp mind are most perfect for her quests.

A field of dying blooms separates Hera and Seraphim from Apollo’s watchful eye. He’s perched between the branches of a tree with a vine of grapes spilling over his hand and fingers. He plucks the fruit with his teeth and listens intently as Hera fills Seraphim’s head with lies and half truths. Apollo snickers quietly, amused by his step-mothers hateful manipulation. She has always been theatrically vindictive.

After some time, just before Apollo’s patience wears thin, Hera emerges from the den and flies off in her avian form, leaving Seraphim unattended. Pleased by having a prime opportunity to undo the goddess’s handywork, Apollo drifts down from his perch and pads through the field. Under each of his steps the foliage comes alive with golden light and blossoms into vibrant hyacinths. The glow outside his window wisens Seraphim to Apollo’s presence. 

Unlike Hera, Apollo enters with fewer hysterics, allowing himself to be vulnerable as a ploy to earn Seraphim’s trust. “I see you’ve met Zeus’s lovely wife,” he announces coyly while drifting through the prism of Seraphim’s mirror. 

“Do the gods not know of knocking,” Seraphim queries, his voice steeped in ire. He is no longer in the mood for games.

“Oh, we know. It’s just so boring compared to our other modes of arriving.” Apollo rolls a purple grape between his fingers until the skin splits and the juices run down his thumb. 

“If you’ve come with a charge, you’ll be leaving disappointed.” Seraphim waits for Apollo to bite his food, then summons his bident, and backs his visitor into a wall with one swift motion.

Apollo flashes his golden smile, the demon is quicker than he expected. Pearly white locks fall over the spikes pressed into Apollo’s throat, and he offers a sultry laugh. “Now now, there’s no need for two bastard to sons to fight.” He lays his hand on Seraphim’s bicep and weakens him. 

Seraphim growls as his arm lowers against his will. “I suppose you all don’t fight fair either.”

“No, we do not.” 

Once Seraphim’s arm is black, necrotic, and limp, Apollo relieves him of the weapon and goes about taking a tour of the den. “Beautiful home you have. Did you do the decorating yourself?”

Seraphim only responds with a gravelly huff. His red eyes track Apollo as he meanders through the room. Their encounter would annoy Seraphim much less if he knew what end Apollo sought. So far, all he could gather was that Apollo thought poorly of Hera, likely because of his fealty to his own mother. The gods were constantly beset by their interwoven bloodlines. 

Apollo doesn’t wait for an answer before returning to Seraphim, standing just in front of him, peering down at his humbled stance. “I’m not like Hera, or my father,” he begins, lazily brushing his fingers against Seraphim’s dead arm, restoring life to it again. Seraphim hums his intrigue at the god’s trickery—rotting the flesh and healing it all the same. Apollo measures his indifference and decides to push further, “or... _our_ little brother.”

Seraphim snatches his arm back and bares his teeth. “What?!”

“It seems my father and your mother have created common ground for us. Dear Heron, he’s rather brave. I like that about him, don’t you?” Apollo eyes his new friend, curious of his bowed head and contemplative frown. It’s clear that Seraphim has found some affection for their brother, but he’s yet to decide what to do with it.

“Would it be too much to ask for you to reveal your purpose? Or must I suffer through your riddles?”

There’s another gilded smile, then Apollo appeases his host. “Heron is in Olympus, and I don’t want to see him put in such a position where he’s made to choose between his father and his brother. If Hera is in your ear, no good can come of it, and I’m offering something she cannot.”

Seraphim rubs the arm Apollo touched and considers all his options. There’s no benefit in believing one god’s word over the other, they’re all self-serving, but he would prefer to spare Heron. It’s the least he can do after blindly murdering their mother. “What exactly are you offering?”

He walks toward Apollo, who’s staring out the window onto the field of hyacinths. There’s a magnetism that draws him to the aureate glow of Apollo’s body until they're merely inches apart. 

“Peace,” Apollo answers as he turns to find Seraphim crowding his space. “I know you can hear that giant who poisoned you. His power possesses you, _consumes_ you, and your heart rages because of it.”

“I have no heart,” Seraphim spits.

“Lies.” 

Apollo places his hand on Seraphim’s chest and presses into the beating rhythm of his heart. His bluish skin lightens to a gray, then beige, then an olive brown. His glowing red marks disappear, replaced by poorly healed scars from his childhood. Seraphim’s pulse hastens as he watches his form return to it’s mortal state under Apollo’s healing touch. “Despite it’s darkness, you certainly possess a heart.”

Seraphim retreats, backing up to escape Apollo’s hand. Just as quickly as he became human, he returns to his demonic state. The giant’s voice has renewed intensity, a whirring siren in his head. Clasping his hands to his ears doesn’t make it stop, and it’s not been this loud since that fated day in Melidoni, where he took twelve lives and began his rampage. 

Seraphim drops to his knees in agony, “make it stop. I beg!”

There’s no hesitation, Apollo kneels beside him and rubs gently at his back, curing him of the giant’s curse. When he’s a man again Apollo steps away so he can breathe. Seraphim pants, doubled over, exhausted from the undulating transformations. Every sense is sharpened when he’s a man, light and sound is offensive. 

“It’ll take some getting used to,” Apollo explains.

“This body is weak, easily killed, and unsuitable.” Seraphim touches his arms, and chest, and hair, which is dark and shiny like crude oil. The tendrils tangle around his fingers as he reacquaints himself with his own body. “Change me back.”

He stands as tall as he can in the god’s shadow and asserts himself again, “I demand it.”

To help even the playing field, Apollo falls into the pallet of furs Seraphim calls a bed, and crosses one leg over the other. “Whatever you wish, but understand the consequences,” Apollo reminds him, referring to the deafening noise. “If you allow it to wear off on its own, you won’t suffer.”

As much as he wants to return to his full strength, Seraphim is secretly disappointed to hear that he will be a demon again with or without Apollo’s help. He stands at the foot of the bed and inquires further. When will it fade? Can he change as often as he wants? Can Apollo make it permanent?

“Friend, there’s much I can do to explain, but it’d be much easier to do so if you kept me company down here,” he pats the furs next to him to request Seraphim’s company, to which Seraphim obliges. 

With as much detail as a god can afford a lesser being, Apollo explains his magic, how temporary it can be for those touched by darkness, and how he can strengthen the effect with more _intimate_ touching. Seraphim doesn’t like how Apollo combs through his dark hair, or traces the indent of his chest scars as he speaks, but he does not protest. He lets Apollo play so he can get the information he wants. Eventually, the heat of his gilded touch becomes enjoyable.

Before long, Seraphim can feel Apollo deeper than his skin, swirling in his stomach, hot and fluttering like a flame. His human face blushes, and Apollo punctuates his last sentence with a tug of Seraphim’s hair. 

The demon-turned-man snatches Apollo’s wrist reflexively. “What game are you playing now?”

“No game,” Apollo assures him, remaining in Seraphim’s grasp though it would be easy to escape. “Just admiration. You’ve gained notice from every eye on Mt. Olympus and I find that impressive.”

Every syllable has an ethereal drawl, drenched in lust, silken and determined. Seraphim is spellbound without magic, captured by his natural needs that haven’t been attended to in so long. His grip drifts down from Apollo’s wrist to his forearm, his elbow, his shoulder, and then, Seraphim dares to touch his perfect face. The angle of Apollo’s jaw is sharpened stone, an ax forged under the sun that cuts through Seraphim’s hesitancy. 

Apollo leans into the timid embrace, cups his hand over Seraphim’s, and closes his eyes. He can hear that his mind isn’t quiet, even without the giant, but his anger is a duller roar, capable of being quelled. Apollo gives him that gift, and listens as the peacefulness sets in.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known this feeling,” Seraphim admits. Being still is a privilege he lost the night his uncle discarded of him as an infant. Since then, he’s rattled through the gloom of life shrouded in noise.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Apollo asks as Seraphim relaxes, finally. 

“Mmmm, very.”

When Apollo opens his eyes Seraphim is incredibly close, less than a breath away. The freckles of his brown skin are noticeable from this distance, tiny constellations across his nose and cheeks. _Beautiful flaws,_ Apollo thinks, reaching up to touch, his fingertips dancing amongst the stars, and his thumb brushing Seraphim’s lip. 

Apollo ignores the hiss that follows, and kisses Seraphim. Pursues him when he falls back onto the furs. Lays on top as he unfolds his body. Matches every movement with a composed embrace. 

Apollo bares down on Seraphim with his mouth, offering a salve for the scars, and fear, and pain. Apollo repairs him with a patient tongue, licking down his rising chest, welding him together with molten kisses. 

Seraphim shivers as Apollo rubs across the flushed skin of his neck, and sternum, and stomach. All the blood in his body sinks between his legs, engorging him until his length strains against Apollo’s thigh. He raises his hips to grind against the god, who is slowly sucking on the pulse above his collarbone. Seraphim’s mortal skin darkens with reds and purples as Apollo ravages him. It is immaculate pain that crashes through his body, forcing his hips to buck harder in search of more.

Without lifting his mouth, Apollo strips Seraphim of the cloth around his waist, and takes his dick in hand. His palm cradles the shaft with slow listless strokes, and Seraphim growls his frustration with Apollo’s restraint.

“Don’t ruin good fun with haste,” Apollo mutters against Seraphim’s neck. 

“You _enjoy_ this?” 

“Immensely,” Apollo smugly divulges. He decides the questions have become petulant, so he takes Seraphim’s mouth—tastes his lips, swallows his moans, quiets his worries. Seraphim desperately pumps into Apollo’s hand, his cock weeps, and his guttural breaths soften into whimpers. Sweat makes his skin tacky, and his hair damp, but Apollo is cool, unaffected. It takes nothing to work Seraphim into a tormented knot, to uncover his primitive desires to be touched, and adored, and devoured.

Apollo’s hand dampens with precum as he twists and strokes, making Seraphim cry from the pleasure. And to Seraphim’s dismay, he stops for a brief moment to remove his fustanella. Beneath it lies an empyrean serpent, winsome, weighty, and deserving of its own worship. His cock falls out of the garb, dripping already, and Apollo massages himself with an amalgam of his and Seraphim’s fluids.

There’s a flash of concern in Seraphim’s eyes as Apollo settles between his legs, prodding his entrance expectantly. It disappears when Apollo kisses him, then lingers as he pushes inside. Seraphim’s eyes slam shut and an uneven breath escapes him as he is stretched open. He pushes against taut abs, praying for Apollo to go slow.

As the god’s tongue flicks between Seraphim’s lips, he finds himself allowed deeper, and deeper, until he’s taken whole. Seraphim tightens around him, pulls him in, accepts the rapture of being taken apart. Apollo wraps his fingers around Seraphim’s cock once more, caressing it as he fucks into him. It’s almost overwhelming for Seraphim’s human form, having Apollo plunge inside, relentless, yet sweet, while his dick twitches in Apollo’s hand. 

Everything in the den begins to glow, sunlight floods the room. “This is the part I enjoy most,” Apollo whispers. His thrusts become tremulous, wonton, uncontrolled. 

Seraphim takes it so well, his own abs tighten against the wave of ecstasy rushing through his core. The light becomes blinding and he realizes that it’s Apollo illuminating the room. He blazes like a supernova, sinking into Seraphim with a power and force he’s never known. 

“I—fuck...don’t stop,” Seraphim pleads. His entire body convulses, cords of cum paint his chest, air escapes his lungs, and he suffocates from the marvy release. He snakes his arms around Apollo’s waist to prevent the god from retreating fully, demanding quick, deep pumps that beckon his climax. Apollo moans a beautiful sound in Seraphim’s ear as he spills into him, slick and warm. His chiseled body rocks through the blissful tension, and he lazily strokes until cum drips down Seraphim’s thigh onto the furs.

Finally, the light dims and the room returns to a dusky gray. “Thank you,” Apollo says softly, tucking a loose lock of hair behind Seraphim’s ear. “Enjoy,” he adds, before disappearing into a golden haze. 

* * *

An army of demons pillage a small town suspected to be the hiding place of Alexia the Amazon. Seraphim has tracked her here knowing she possesses a map that he needs. He sends his leigemen into the town to draw her out, knowing that the most noble warriors always spare innocents in exchange for their own lives.

After a day’s campaign, Alexia was nowhere to be found, and the failure enraged Seraphim to no end. He stormed through the camp, questioned every member of his army that looked feeble, and culled the weak with his bident. Once he satisfied his bloodthirst, he sent those that remained off to find him useful information.

* * *

He paces the room he’s made of a nearby cave, yelling curses that echo off the walls. And with every violent outburst, the voice in his head grows louder, more painful, unbearable.

“Why won’t it stop,” he screams as he falls to his knees. He knows exactly how to escape it, but pride rears its ugly head. He thinks it a sign of weakness to call on a god for help when there is a war brewing in Greece. 

Seraphim tried to ignore his suffering, as he had practiced doing all his life, but the voice grew too loud to ignore. It broke his will, forcing him to give in to his desires—he called out for Apollo.

A burst of light transports the god into Seraphim’s cave. He doesn’t attempt to hide his delight with seeing his demon friend again. “I expected you to call me much sooner.”

“I only come to you because I have no other choice,” Seraphim barks from his huddled position on the floor. The giant’s voice is mind numbing, he desperately wants Apollo to touch him, to make it stop.

With what little strength he has left, Seraphim stands and stumbles towards the god, reaching out for embrace. Apollo takes his arm before he collapses again, and instantly, Seraphim finds relief. 

“Thank you,” he pants.

Apollo smiles, happy to be appreciated, and needed. He waits for Seraphim to gather himself so they can see each other without the veil of desperation. Two red eyes find two more made of fresh honey, and for a moment the two men—one god, one demon—stand as equals.

The red markings that cover Seraphim’s body flare as he remembers the last encounter with Apollo. The hunger in his body is no longer for vengeance, or food, or blood; Seraphim thirsts for the healing touch of a god.

“Sweet, Seraphim...you do know I can read your mind?” Apollo jests as he traces the garnet pulse beneath his fingers.

If the demonic hue of his skin were capable of blushing, Seraphim would be as red as his eyes. Fortunately, he was able to hide his embarrassment with feigned bravado. “Then tell me, what is it you hear?”

“I hear your cravings breaking from good reason. Lust blinding your better judgement,” Apollo erases the small gap between them and begins unbraiding Seraphim’s hair. “Loudest of all, I hear how you suffer, and that is why you called on me. You want your flesh back, if only for a night.”

“I have many desires, all of which you know and have known. I cannot say the same for you.” Seraphim’s disgruntled façade wanes as Apollo combs through his hair, the white locks fall across his back and shoulders.

“I originally came to you looking to usurp Hera’s plans, but instead, found a friend,” Apollo explains. “Now I desire to see you happy.”

“Then change me.”

Apollo smirks as he remarks, “don’t be a loaf, Seraphim. _Take_ what you want.”

That is invitation enough for the demon. With the strength of the giant polluting his veins, he is strong enough to lift Apollo off his feet and onto a nearby table. He rips the silk covering from his brawny body, revealing perfect, tan skin. His clawed fingers drag from shoulder to pelvis without leaving a mark. His god is not phased by demon strength. 

Seraphim remembers how he melted in Apollo’s hand, and does his best to return the favor, though cumbersome and unsure. 

“Come here,” Apollo moans as his length swells from Seraphim’s touch. He pulls him into a hot kiss and guides the pace of his hand, teaching him steadiness, delicacy, finesse. He leads Seraphim from the base to the tip, attentive and firm. “Good,” Apollo sighs. 

A gumptious idea comes over Seraphim, and he drops his head to Apollo’s lap. His mouth replaces their hands, and much to Apollo’s surprise, he swallows the god’s cock until it disappears in his maw, smothering the back of his throat. “For the love of—hnnnnnnn—Seraphim.”

The sound of Apollo’s weakness spurs Seraphim on. He bobs his head, careful to hide his fangs, and lavishes his god thoroughly. Apollo’s comportment quickly dissolves, his body writhes between Seraphim’s lips. He avoids turning him just yet so he can enjoy the image of Seraphim’s rugged, marred body, kneeling and complaisant. He is _beautiful_ , even with the marks of a beast.

A rapturous pressure grows between Apollo’s legs, and he knows he’ll come soon, so he grabs at Seraphim’s horn to keep his face impaled. He thrusts against his tongue only to have his efforts matched by Seraphim’s sucking. They slam together quite recklessly, but their bodies don’t suffer, the strain is exquisite.

Just as before, Apollo peaks with a daunting glow that turns the cave into a star bursting with light. His grip on Seraphim’s horn is all that keeps him earthbound, and two rough hands bore into his thighs while he’s consumed like a fresh harvest. His body heaves rays of ecstasy, and he explodes into Seraphim’s mouth. 

Sapid cum washes across Seraphim’s tongue, down his throat, and dribbles from his lips. As he lifts his head, the deformities fade, his skin tans, and his hair darkens to its natural deep brown. Finally, he is mortal again.

Seraphim stands and wipes the mess from his face with the back of his hand. “I missed this,” he huffs, exhausted but unsatisfied.

“Then take _more_ ,” Apollo insists. His eyes have darkened from honey to a deep hazel sap. He offers himself to Seraphim without expectations of anything in return.

Seraphim’s mortal form is smaller but not necessarily weaker, as it is infused with the magic of a god. He offers his hand to Apollo, and when he takes it, Seraphim spins him around and pins him to the table, chest down, legs spread.

He begins with his fingers, which are much softer now, fit for exploring Apollo’s supple body. Seraphim licks at the tip of his index, slides it between Apollo’s thighs and up to his entrance. He circles the sensitive, puckering skin, then pushes one finger inside to feel how Apollo constricts around it. 

“Do you enjoy _this_ part,” Seraphim asks before lubricating his cock with strings of spit.

“Especially this part,” the god retorts.

Seraphim enjoys the haughty tone of Apollo’s voice and rewards him for it. He dives into Apollo’s depths with the patience of a young boy—enlivened, swift, concerned only with getting his fill. He did not expect to feel so warm, and powerful, and obsessed. He rests his hands on the small of Apollo’s back and rocks his hips forcibly, like waves crashing onto the shore. 

It takes no time for that familiar heat to fill his stomach. Apollo can hear the hitch in his breath and knows it is too much for Seraphim to withstand. “My sweet boy, let go...release.”

It’s as if his words hold power, because Seraphim obeys, bursting as he buries his length inside. “Fuck,” he growls, his voice animalistic and brutish.

When the tension in his body subsides, he stumbles backwards and falls into his bed of furs, too spent to stand. Apollo makes himself a bedmate and lays beside Seraphim while the coital euphoria sets in. He revisits the freckles dotting Seraphim’s face, making note of a few he had not seen before. Gods don’t have blemishes, which makes loving a human that much better.

* * *

They fall in and out of sleep, tangling and untangling their limbs, finding new ways to hold each other in the darkness of the cave. Apollo imagines a different world where he can take Seraphim to Olympus, clothe him in silks, bathe him in stars, mend his wounds forever. War won’t allow such a future, but it’s lovely to dream.

Seraphim stirs under Apollo’s calm gaze. He is still mortal, still cloaked in magic, realizing that he slept for the first time in months.

Something so simple as laying on his side was a gift for Seraphim. His horns and radiating marks never allowed him restful sleep, but as a mortal he could enjoy sound slumber. Apollo curled into his back, their flesh meeting at every bend, contrasting locks of hair intermingling in a pile between them. 

“How long can I stay like this?”

Apollo smiled into Seraphim’s shoulder, aware of the fear in his voice, and the vulnerability it revealed. “So long as I’m here. Maybe a while after.”

Seraphim held his hand out and tried to remember a time when he didn’t have calluses and scars on every finger. He lived in the wild for so long, untouched by human life, unwanted, unloved. All he can remember is the pain.

“And how long will you be here?” he asks, more fragile than his first question.

This time Apollo kisses his shoulder and traces the spot with his nose. His father would notice his absence soon, and he knew better than to anger the Thunderer, but Seraphim had given him something he had missed for a century, maybe longer. Seraphim gave him a challenge—he was so difficult to love because he was so convinced he didn’t deserve it. Apollo wraps his arms around him and hugs him close, reassuring, firm. “So long as you’ll have me.”

Under other circumstances, Seraphim would have fled the embrace to deny himself fleeting joys. But Apollo stamped out the embers of fear that burned in his heart. Even godly magic could not explain his affections.

Seraphim arches his back and presses against Apollo, the friction turns him hard as stone. “I don’t require your body to stay here, sweet Seraphim.”

He takes Apollo’s hand and brings it to his lips. “I know,” Seraphim murmurs into the soft skin of his god’s knuckles. “It is what _I_ require.”

More than healing or power, Seraphim wants another’s touch, as much of it as he can stand. Apollo finds great joy in providing that.

Without needing his hands, Apollo slides inside of Seraphim from behind, bare chest rubbing against his shoulder blades, he whispers, “as you wish.”

* * *

Morning has come and gone before Seraphim wakes. His eyes open to find hands with no talons, shoulders broad and round without horns, even brown skin without a trace of disease. Apollo had vanished but Seraphim would remain mortal for many more hours.

His cave feels hauntingly dark without his god. He begins to lament their tryst and the lie of hope it brought. What good was happiness that didn’t last?

Seraphim wrapped himself in a wool cloak and stepped out into the sunlight. It reminded him of Apollo, though it did not feel nearly as good. He took deep breaths as she absorbed the rays and enjoyed what would surely be the last moments in his human form. 

Just before he turned to retreat to his cave, the ground became soft with rich soil, and hyacinths sprouted right before his eyes. He knew such trickery was the work of his god bestowing small moments of beauty onto him. Seraphim could not see Apollo, but he knew he was being watched from Olympus, forevermore the subject of heavenly gaze. 

**Author's Note:**

> whew these boys love fucking. thanks for coming!


End file.
